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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29427147">Season Of The Witch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zab43/pseuds/Zab43'>Zab43</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1960s Gay Culture, 1960s Music, Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, No Sex, Nostalgia, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Rare Pairings, Sadness, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Summer of Love - Freeform, no happy ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:22:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,938</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29427147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zab43/pseuds/Zab43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>1967 - the summer of love. Also the summer homosexuality was decriminalised in England and Wales. The summer Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (Beatles), Season of the Witch (Donovan) and Whiter Shade of Pale (Procol Harum) were all released. A significant summer for other reasons too….</p><p>As Crowley sits in a cafe in Wandsworth he recalls that one heady summer when he was bewitched by a certain young man.</p><p>***wobbly flashback thing like they do on the telly***</p><p>…a young Shadwell is desperate to join the London scene and, through Crowley, he gets his ‘in’. A long summer season that will change both of them….</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Crowley/Sergeant Shadwell (Good Omens), Crowley/Young Shadwell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Rare Omens</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Season Of The Witch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’ve never even considered these two as a pair, but read a prompt for Rare Omens and the story formed in my head almost immediately. Hope it's ok.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cafe was at least clean, even if it was in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere by London standards anyway. That’s to say it was south of the river. Crowley had made sure the Bentley was secure - several layers of hexes prevented it even been seen, let alone interfered with.</p><p>The demon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pretending to interest himself in the copy of the Infernal Times he’d picked up on his way past head-office. He really wasn’t comfortable here and it wasn’t just the run-down vibe of the housing estate opposite, or the potential for his precious Bentley to get vandalised. It was because he was meeting Shadwell. Now Sargent Shadwell he reminded himself with a smile. Back when he’d first met him….. oh he had looked so different then…</p><p> </p><p>***wobbly flashback thing like they do on the telly***</p><p> </p><p>Crowley remembered the young Lance Corporal’s endearingly self concious attempt at playing the nonchalant tough guy. The way he’d tried to look at least ten years older than he really was. The way he’d casually mentioned his stint in prison with Crowley’s usual locksman: ‘his cell mate’ - establishing his credentials.</p><p>Shadwell hadn’t mentioned he’d only been held in a cell for a few hours after throwing a brick through the window of a pub that refused to serve him without ID. His lock-picking skills came from several months on a vocational locksmith course at the local technical college. However, in the few hours they had shared a cell, Shadwell had indeed talked to Crowley’s usual man and got his ‘in’ to the criminal underworld he had been so desperate to join.</p><p>Crowley had seen him a few times after the first meeting. Always just on the edge of the group, not quite fitting in. He wanted to belong so desperately, but at the same time his natural shyness made him diffident, standoffish and difficult to talk to. Crowley had rather taken a shine to him.</p><p>Obviously a demon didn’t feel sympathy and certainly wasn’t capable of kindness, but with the young Lance Corporal, Crowley had got close. In a bar somewhere in Soho, loud and packed, Shadwell had stood alone, trying so hard to look cool, like he belonged. As the demon watched he was approached by a strange man who nodded to the handkerchief in his top pocket “you flagging?”</p><p>Crowley cringed inwardly, the youngster would have no idea what the words referred to. The reference to gay subculture would be lost in a sea of his naivety. Shadwell had, however, surprised him. “Not tonight laddie” he answered with a sad shake of his head. That had piqued the demon’s interest. How he know what ‘flagging’ even was? He paid attention now.</p><p>Shadwell’s eyes had roamed the room in a speculative way. As if he was looking for something in particular, maybe somebody in particular. The demon allowed himself to be spotted and wasn’t at all surprised when the young man came over.</p><p>“Aye Mr Crowley, out for a few bevvies are ya?” The question was asked pointedly. Shadwell himself was nursing an empty glass and somehow projected an aura of thirst that stretched easily across the distance between them.</p><p>Crowley took a crisp note from his pocket and waved it in the youngster’s direction “whisky… and one for yourself too?” It wasn’t really a question. The proffered note was replaced with a large whisky in no time. Shadwell had the same and raised his glass in thanks. No change was forthcoming, which amused the demon no end.</p><p>After yet more drinks he suggested they move on, make a night of it. Outside the demon had waved a hand at the neons lights of various clip joints “that your sort of thing?” He’d asked vaguely, watching for the response. Shadwell had been disapproving.</p><p>The demon tried hard to read the man’s thoughts, but couldn’t really see through an alcoholic haze. From the way he looked at him, and his easy dismissal of the traditional sights of Soho, Crowley decided to take a gamble. He took him to a little club where he knew the owners.</p><p>The mundane interior seemed to disappoint his companion, until he spoke in a low voice to the man at the bar. Crowley briefly opened his coat to reveal his button-hole of a single sprig of lavender and winked. They’d been shown down to the cellar bar, where the real fun happened.</p><p>Oh how he’d loved the theatrics of the scene back then. It was less romantic to remember the reason why they had been forced to adopt those bizarre practises - how can you criminalise love? However, the flowers and the handkerchiefs, the coded language and the secrecy of it all had appealed to the demon.</p><p>He still wasn’t sure about his companion as they descended into the sticky heat of the bar below. Crowley was known here and was greeted immediately. Apparently they found his companion’s cautious, stiff persona amusing. They teased the demon for his choice of ‘a bit of rough trade’. The taunts had made him weirdly protective over the young Shadwell.</p><p>Both had been quite drunk to begin with, then they’d topped up their levels with more whisky and ended up on the tiny dance floor. There the pair had made a fair spectacle of themselves, but it had been so much fun. He’d even seen the ghost of a smile on the young man’s face as he’d pulled him into a kind of tango, clearing a path to the bar.</p><p>The demon wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but the alcohol was running strong in his system, so he pulled Shadwell in for a kiss. Crowley was taking less of a risk than the others in the bar - if he got it wrong the police courts would never see him in their docks at least.</p><p>However, it was still a risk. If only because getting it wrong might lead to him needing a new persona. The London underworld didn’t feel any more kindly towards homosexuals than so called ‘polite society’. That meant the kiss had been hesitant, but it hadn’t been rebuffed.</p><p>The night had ended awkwardly. Obviously outside the club they couldn’t stand too close, couldn’t hold hands, certainly couldn’t kiss. Shadwell had stood on the corner and said “this is me Mr Crowley” indicating the road off to the east.</p><p>The demon recoiled - in this circle he was not known by that name. He’d answered sharply “don’t call me that. It’s Anthony now, remember that. No surnames either. If it’s ever really necessary then use Anthony Jay. Got it?”</p><p>The young man was stung. It was almost like he’d forgotten the forbidden nature of their liaison. He’d mumbled in response “I thought… hasn’t the law changed here?”</p><p>Crowley replied bitterly “the bill comes in next month, but it won’t change attitudes now will it? Call me Anthony and don’t stand too close out here”. He looked about, as if frightened of being seen.</p><p>Shadwell has answered sadly “it won’t apply in Scotland, but I thought down here….” he tailed off. Picking up quickly “I mean, I’m not… not really a pansy. I don’t belong in this scene, but I thought, if I wanted to try it - I’m not….sure… maybe there’s treatment I could get…?” A half question. Being gay was still viewed by many as a mental health condition.</p><p>Crowley scowled “there’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with you. Just gotta keep it under wraps - understand?” Even to him the words sounded contradictory. If there was nothing wrong with it then why did they need to keep it secret? It made it feel like they were doing something illicit, unpleasant, a dirty little secret to be kept behind closed doors.</p><p>They did, in fact, have to keep it behind closed doors. Closed and locked with the curtains drawn and no-one in the same house who may see. Despite the new law it was an offence to be seen by anyone, even if they were an intruder or uninvited spy.</p><p>Consent only kicked in at 21 too - unlike heterosexual couples where 16 was the rule. Like you had to be hardened, more adult, to make the choice. As if it was something you needed to protect youth from. Crowley hated it, but at least with the law change they couldn’t be raided or imprisoned for what they did inside their own home.</p><p>Shadwell smiled and said “aye, Anthony it is then laddie, see you around? Maybe we could….again…”</p><p>The demon smiled back “maybe we can. I’d like that”. They’d gone their separate ways.</p><p>That was how it had started. Shadwell didn’t know anyone in London, not just on ‘the scene’ as he called it. He was a recent arrival from Scotland. Possibly attracted by the imminent law change in England. The “Sexual Offences Act”: even the name made it seem wrong. Decriminalisation only granted with reluctance, abhorrence was still the majority opinion. Like being gay made you a predator, a paedophile, wrong inside.</p><p>There was never anything official in their relations, nothing that you could pin down. They danced in the sticky basement bars, drank in the little attic rooms - all in secret. It was almost an adventure. Certainly the young Shadwell seemed to revel in the codes and signs, even the strange language used to pass into acceptance on ‘the scene’.</p><p>Crowley had introduced him as Shadwell, but he’d quickly corrected it to Lance Corporal Shadwell. Of course with the Beatles release of Sergeant Pepper that year he quickly became ‘Sergeant Shadwell’ and then simply ‘The Sergeant’. The demon was never sure what he thought of the name, but he didn’t actively object. Honestly Crowley wasn’t sure what The Sergeant thought of most things. He retained a certain aloofness, still not quite part of the crowd.</p><p>Anthony and The Sergeant became pretty well known, invited to clubs, to parties. It was practically a coup to have them on your list - ‘my darling you’ve got to come: Anthony and The Sergeant will be there’.</p><p>The language was often opaque, hidden meanings that only those in the know could understand. It was almost romantic: ‘zhoosh up your raih’, ‘put slap on your eek, ‘troll the Dilly’. They had in fact walked along Piccadilly, ‘Anthony’ with discrete eye-liner and wonderfully coiffered hair - which was all the phrases meant.</p><p>It had been so much fun. They’d gone to the parks and watched the hippies dance, enjoying their summer, the summer of love. As the flower-power beatniks lay supine and semi-naked in the sun, Crowley had painted flowers on their bodies while The Sergeant counted their nipples. His obsession with witches was a matter of high comedy to those in the know. When Season of the Witch was released it quickly became ‘their song’ and was played as soon as Anthony and The Sergeant arrived.</p><p>The first time it had happened Shadwell blushed and mumbled something about being on guard against the forces of darkness. Maybe the others thought it was a joke. Crowley knew he was serious, but it didn’t spoil their fun. They’d danced all the more ‘you gotta pick up every stitch….mmmmm…must be the season of the witch’….</p><p>That was how it had felt too - like Crowley was bewitched. The young Sergeant at his side, accepted and loved at least within their own circle, a half-magical time. The summer of love, 1967, a season of peace and free love that seeped into his demonic being. It was a whirlwind romance, but also not a romance. Kisses and fumbles, but nothing more. Shadwell was hesitant and uncertain. Crowley didn’t push.</p><p>One night they found themselves at a party - in the lexicon of their group it was bijou, but bona, even fantabulosa. Crowley had started to feel strange, the room swam. In the words of another hit of the day he was ‘feeling kinda seasick’, the room was ‘humming harder’ and, if he’d seen himself, he would know his face really had turned a ‘whiter shade of pale’. Shadwell was there, holding his arm, steering him toward the door. Then everything had gone blank.</p><p>Waking up Crowley was shivering, he felt the weight of covers over him and could hear someone moving around. He blearily opened his eyes and saw The Sergeant. “You’re awake then are ye?” he’d asked in a typically neutral way, but the demon could hear the relief in his voice.</p><p>He took stock. He was cold and his head ached. The last thing he remembered was being carried to the door and out into the cold and dark and wet of a London suburb somewhere….then… he couldn’t recall.</p><p>The Sergeant was boiling a kettle over an open fire. The fireplace was obviously built for coal, but it was burning wood. As he looked around further he saw the sparsely furnished room, the table was half chopped up, an axe near the roughly hewn off legs. Shadwell was burning the furniture.</p><p>“I cannae afford the coal laddie, but you need to be warm. Reckon there was sommat in yon last drink”. Shadwell hadn’t made eye contact. He was busying himself filling a tin bath, that was drawn up in front of the fire, from the steaming kettle. “No power, but at least the watters still on” he grunted while filling another kettle from the kitchen tap.</p><p>As Crowley emerged from the pile of blankets he felt the frost in the air. The room was freezing. The windows were lined with old newspaper, taped in place over broken panes. “Where are we?” he’d asked, still half dazed and groggy from his spiked drink.</p><p>Shadwell had turned to him with a dour expression, he waved a hand around the room “ma diggins laddie. Not much but it’s hame”.</p><p>“You pay rent for this place?!” asked the demon in disbelief.</p><p>That had elicited a laugh at least “nah, it’s been compulsory purchased, due to be demolished for slum clearance. I’m makin’ use of it in the meantime”. The state of the room confirmed the building’s slum status: peeling wallpaper over damp streaked walls, part of the floor taken up, either rotten boards or to feed the fire. It had the depressing feeling of poverty and neglect.</p><p>Above all it was cold. The summer was over and the heady feeling of freedom and revolution had dissipated in the cold reality of a British winter. His breath steamed and his limbs ached. Shadwell indicated the bath “best way to warm y’sel Anthony - get in”. It was kindly said and a sensible idea, Crowley hastened to obey.</p><p>As he disentangled himself from the blanket nest he realised he was in his pants and vest. Looking suspiciously at Shadwell the Sergeant indicated a line strung across the kitchen area where his clothes were hung. “You was soppin’ wet laddie. I’m dryin’ ‘em for ya”, a grunted explanation.</p><p>Crowley hastened to free himself and get over to the fire and the hot bath as fast as possible. Once there he stripped off his underwear and quickly got himself into the tub. The warmth immediately made his limbs sting and ache. It spread slowly into his core and he started feeling better. His shoulders were still cold and he tried to splash water over them.</p><p>He hadn’t noticed Shadwell approach and so jumped when he knelt beside the bath. The young man was uncertain, that much was clear. “Do ye want help washin’ ya back?” He’d asked and Crowley, befuddled by the after effects of the drug and hypnotised by the steaming water had simply nodded. His hands were slightly rough, but not cold, and the kind act warmed Crowley almost as much as the hot water and fire.</p><p>Once clean and warmed through Shadwell had offered a floral towel with bare patches and far too small. He noticed how the Sergeant tried to hide his look of longing as he’d stepped naked out of the tin bath and rubbed himself rapidly with the thread bare towel. There was a dressing gown laid out and he shrugged into it quickly against the frosty air of the room.</p><p>“Best get back under the covers” he was advised and quickly did as he was bid. At least he was warm now. He was handed a steaming mug of tea that tasted impossibly sweet. As he drained it he reached the sugary sludge at the bottom and drank this down too, feeling it would do him good. Shadwell watched appreciatively.</p><p>“It’s awful cold out here laddie, mind if I join ya?” asked the young man diffidently, as if it didn’t matter to him whether he was to be allowed into his own bed or not. Crowley had nodded and Shadwell carefully took off his coat, laying it on top of the pile of blankets for extra warmth. Then he’d removed his trousers and shirt and quickly burrowed into the heat of the bed.</p><p>They’d lain, spooned together, ostensibly for warmth, but also for the wonderful feeling of togetherness. Crowley had wriggled out of the robe and revelled in the contact of skin on skin. Shadwell held him stiffly. He clearly wasn’t entirely comfortable with the closeness. As if in answer to this thought the young man had asked “do you want to… I’ve never tried it… ‘the act’ that is… do you?”</p><p>Crowley surmised he was talking about sex. The demon wasn’t sure what to do. It was obvious that the Sergeant wasn’t comfortable and had never done it before. He’d been conflicted over a kiss, a brush of hands, a grope in the dark. How would he react to ‘the act’ itself. The demon answered in an equally hesitant way “we can, I’d like to, but, we don’t… you don’t have to, it’s not essential”.</p><p>Crowley felt those hands slipping down to touch him, his half-erection was tenderly stroked and he groaned involuntarily. After a few moments the contact was withdrawn. Shadwell was apologetic “I don’t think I can…don’t think I’m ready to… it is a sin isn’t it? Unnatural? I don’t know if I could live with that…” Crowley was frustrated, but had nodded understandingly. They resumed cuddling and soon fell asleep. A little more than friends, but never to be lovers.</p><p>The next morning he’d woken and tried to sneak out without waking his companion. It didn’t work and he realised he had no idea where they were in any case. It turned out the squat was near the docklands, actually in Shadwell. He’d grinned at that and made a comment about the coincidence. At that the other had laughed out loud “yur not the onny one with a fake name ‘Anthony’!”</p><p>Obvious, when he thought about it. He’d laughed back and said he’d find his own way out. Thanked his friend for looking after him. Promised they would meet again and maybe…. maybe one day he might be ready to…. He’d left it at that.</p><p>It had to end, of course. An immortal demon couldn’t have a real relationship with a human. They were so short lived and they aged, they aged terribly. He would have to end it eventually. As it happened the end came sooner than he’d originally planned.</p><p>After that one heady summer of love, the season of the witch, the scene in Shadwell’s squat had suddenly made the whole thing seem squalid, sordid, distasteful. He was a demon with thousands of years experience, a tempter, seeped in real sin, his touch could mean damnation. What right had he to push this human into something he wasn’t sure about? Crowley knew that it wasn’t a sin - love was never a sin - but to Shadwell it clearly was.</p><p>If he had pushed him just a little, tried to take it that further step, then he could have persuaded him so easily, but he didn’t want to. The thrill of carrying through a temptation wasn’t there. The chase was over and he found he couldn’t bring himself to down his quarry.</p><p>The young man’s lust was clear, bubbling just under the surface, but it was also so repressed. What would be the consequence of deliberately bringing it out? It wasn’t fair, it made the demon feel shabby to even think about it. He didn’t want to try.</p><p>It was a few weeks before he saw him again. Like the young man had been avoiding him. They met this time in a dingy Soho bar, away from the promiscuous and secret clubs. Crowley sat uncomfortably and mumbled an excuse to end it. Something about a wife, a suburban home, respectability encased in bay windows and privet hedges. A child, he’d said, his wife was pregnant, he was needed at home, couldn’t leave her. Had to go back. He saw the hurt in Shadwell’s eyes but pushed past it. He couldn’t stay, couldn’t keep this life.</p><p>They’d communicated after that of course. There was the Witchfinder Army to consider. Crowley got the impression it had taken more and more of Shadwell’s time. Always single minded he’d retreated into a kind of obsession. Crowley had sent funds in plain brown wrappings ‘to be collected’ from dingy little newsagents. He hadn’t seen him again for decades. He didn’t want to see him as ‘Anthony’ again anyway. There was no conversation they could have that wouldn’t be painful.</p><p>So far as he knew Shadwell had never had anyone else, never known the comfort of a relationship. For all he knew he was still a virgin, unable to reconcile his desires with his belief in sin. He avoided meeting even after ‘Anthony’ had retired. Finally arranging brief liaisons by postcard, and later phone, only when enough years had passed to make him unrecognisable and even then simply to pass on ‘wages’ in plain brown wrappers.</p><p>If Crowley suspected the ‘wages’ didn’t end up in the pocket of the Army he never said anything. Retaining the ‘Army’ gave him the excuse to be kind without actually being seen to be kind. Demons weren’t kind. Shadwell wouldn’t have accepted charity anyway - far too proud. He took the funds as his right, it was fair pay for fair work, not that he ever did much work.</p><p>Now the demon sat in the cafe waiting to see the man he’d shared one summer with. The crumbled ruins of that man anyway. Time had ravaged him, eroded the youth and beauty, stripped away the hope. Or was it Crowley who had killed that hope?</p><p>He didn’t want to think about it. He posed as his own son. The reason why the Anthony of ‘67 had left as soon as that bewitching summer, the season of the witch, had ended.</p><p>Shadwell had shuffled in. It hurt Crowley to look, to see what he’d turned into. As he lit his cigarette a ghost of the young Shadwell’s manner returned and Crowley winced. </p><p>“You're looking well” he’d said, and Crowley grunted “clean living” not making eye contact, unable to look at his former nearly-lover.</p><p>Then the wistful question “…and your father, how is he? You resemble him very much” so much pain behind those words. He hid it well though, superficially it sounded like a polite enquiry, just asking after an old acquaintance, nothing more.</p><p>Crowley dismissed it readily enough “yeah, he’s well”. He needed to get this over with. He couldn’t look at the old man before him. The memories rose like unquiet ghosts. He rushed through the conversation and left hastily. It was a good job demons didn’t have hearts or his would be breaking right now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The 1967 act referenced did indeed only apply to England and Wales didn’t change in Scotland until 1980. ‘Flagging’ relates to the handkerchief code - which I’m not sure is 1960s London or more 1970s US but I put it in anyway. The ‘language’ referenced is Polari.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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